Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  Who was she? How did she get that tiny scar on her wrist? What were the night terrors that had brought her out of deep sleep whenever the train stopped last night?

  He had known women who were more beautiful. More voluptuous. Certainly more compliant. But never one as unpredictable and headstrong and guarded as the woman sitting across from him.

  And smart.

  Which fascinated him most of all.

  “Do stop staring at me,” she murmured.

  “I can’t help it. You look very pretty, especially with the sunlight shining through the window, turning your hair to gold.”

  “Actual gold? It must be very heavy.”

  “Alas, more of an illusion than a reality.”

  She popped a pinch of bread into her mouth and watched him watch her chew and swallow it. “And my eyes? Does the sun make them especially sparkly?”

  “Like green fire.”

  “And give my skin a glow of vitality?”

  “It does.”

  “Are you totally smitten, then?”

  “I fear I am.”

  Laughing, she lifted a palm. “Enough. Or I shall lose my lunch.” But she said it with the first true smile since he’d asked about Smythe.

  Amused, he filed away another clue: Lucinda Hathaway was uncomfortable with compliments. Odd in a woman so attractive. He resolved to give her several more, just to see her squirm.

  The waiter arrived to replace their empty luncheon plates with dessert cups—a thick, rich custard topped with a caramelized sugar crust. They ate in a companionable silence, once more at ease with one another.

  To keep from staring at the woman across from him, Tait watched diners come and go, saw none who resembled Smythe’s description, and turned toward the window. Beyond it, the distant dome of Blue Knob rose like the back of a sleeping bear. Fields gave way to thick stands of hemlock, oak, and maple, and water trickling down rock faces or running in creeks beside the tracks reflected bright flashes of sunlight as they rolled past. All around them, the land showed signs of awaking after a long winter’s rest.

  It reminded Tait of spring back home, where the Smokies of the southern Appalachians bridged the border between Tennessee and North Carolina. Except here, no fog curled over the ridges or rose out of the wooded valleys like lingering drifts of smoke from ancient fires.

  He took a deep breath and let it out, thinking how much easier it was for him to breathe the farther away they traveled from the bustle of Manhattan. Had he been in the city so long he’d forgotten the taste of cool mountain air, the feel of open sky above him, or the silent hush of a deep forest?

  He’d heard there were even more dramatic mountains farther west. Thousands of feet taller than these, where the air was so thin and crisp it hurt to breathe, and where there were still a few valleys so remote they had yet to bear the track of man.

  The Wild West. It was luring people by the thousands.

  Looking across the table at Lucinda, he wondered if that was where she was headed, and if so, what she would do if he offered to ride along.

  An unexpected notion. And once formed, impossible to ignore.

  “What happened after your parents died?” he asked, risking another blunder rather than deal with that troubling thought.

  A wistful smile curled her lips. Pressing the bowl of her spoon into her custard, she said, “A guardian angel saved me.”

  “And who was that?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll not reveal a name and put anyone at risk.”

  “At risk how?”

  “Doyle is a vengeful man.”

  He reared back in his chair, insulted by the implication. “You think I’d tell him?”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Your first loyalty is to him. Why wouldn’t you?”

  Too angry for restraint, he slapped his napkin down beside his plate. “My first loyalty is to my conscience! And I don’t carry tales, Miss Hathaway.”

  She studied him in silence. He could read the doubt in her eyes. Could see she wanted to believe and trust him. But something rose up between them and held her back. As it always did.

  He was weary of it.

  Leaning across the narrow table until his face was a foot from hers, he spoke with quiet emphasis. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I am not your enemy, Lucinda. I never have been. And I never will be.”

  He watched a great sadness come over her face and something close to tears glitter in her eyes. “And yet you’re here, Tait. What am I to make of that?”

  Tait. It was the first time she’d called him by his given name. “I’m here to protect you.”

  “From whom? Smythe? You didn’t even know about him until after you arrived. Doyle? If that’s the case, you should have stayed to stop him, rather than coming after me. Instead, you’ve trailed me like a hound on a blood scent. Why would you do that?”

  For you. The unspoken thought exploded in his mind.

  I came for you.

  Those words shocked him, cast his mind into turmoil. And suddenly, in that confused state, he saw himself through her eyes: a lonely man chasing after a woman who was married to another—a woman who neither trusted him nor seemed to welcome his attentions. What kind of fool would do such a thing?

  The answer was so clear he couldn’t deny it.

  One who couldn’t give up until he knew the truth—about her feelings for Doyle, about her past, about his own feelings for her.

  You idiot.

  Teeth clenched, he rubbed a hand over his brow where a tiny tick of pain was building between his eyes. “All I want is the truth, Lucinda.” But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. He wanted everything. In every carnal and emotional and intellectual way, he wanted to break through all her barriers and find the woman beneath.

  “I told you the truth,” she reminded him.

  “Not all of it.”

  “Well, it’s all the truth you’re ever going to get.” Folding her napkin, she took care to line it up next to her dessert plate. “Some things are best left unspoken, Mr. Rylander. This is one of them. Please do not ask me about it again. Now if you will excuse me.”

  She started to rise.

  “Don’t.” He clapped a hand over hers, pinning it to the table. “Don’t run from me.” Realizing the inappropriateness of his action, he forced himself to take his hand away. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide and unblinking, her body poised for flight.

  “Okay, that’s not strictly true,” he conceded with a smile that felt more awkward than reassuring. “I did mean to pry, Lucinda. Just not so clumsily. But I assure you it won’t happen again.”

  Her shoulders relaxed slightly. She pulled her hand back and rested it in her lap. “What won’t happen again? The prying? Or the clumsiness?”

  “Both. Either.” He leaned back in his chair before he did something else foolish. Even touching her hand in such an impersonal way had sent his heart into a fast, hard rhythm. “Would you care to visit the Parlor Car, Miss Hathaway?”

  “Perhaps another time, Mr. Rylander. I think I would prefer to rest a bit before we reach Altoona.”

  “Of course.” Rising, he helped her out of her bench seat, then picked up her valise and walked her to their compartment. As he set the valise beside her couch, he saw that in their absence George had been in to raise the beds and tidy the room. He offered to lower her berth so she could nap, but she declined, saying the couch would suffice.

  So formal. So distant. So coolly proper.

  It infuriated him. They were sharing a room, for God’s sake. He had spent half the night listening to her breathe and wondering what she wore—if anything—beneath that tent of a robe. Now after one foolish misstep, she couldn’t even treat
him civilly? Hell.

  Okay, perhaps it was two foolish missteps, but he had apologized all he was going to. He wouldn’t grovel, even for her. So after telling her he would return to escort her to dinner once they reached Altoona, he bid her a pleasant afternoon rest and left the room. Damn woman.

  What did he have to do to break through that reserve and bring her to heel?

  The absurdity of that ever happening made him laugh. He’d never met a more elusive, prickly, secretive, hardheaded woman in his life. He had as much chance of bringing her heel as she had of keeping him under her thumb.

  Still . . . it would be fun to try.

  Good humor restored, he continued down the hallway, out the back of the sleeper car, and into the Parlor Car coupled behind it. A quick glance told him none of the men who were lounging on the plush couches matched Smythe’s description.

  Then where the hell was he?

  Disgruntled, he settled onto one of the swivel chairs, stretched out his legs as best he could, and mentally composed the wire he would send to Doyle as soon as they reached Altoona.

  He wouldn’t mention that he had found Lucinda—Margaret. He would say only that he had tracked her to Philadelphia and was now on his way to Pittsburgh. He wasn’t sure he should ask about Smythe until he knew for certain what the man was up to. He would close by saying the train would leave Altoona at ten o’clock tonight and if Doyle had a response, send it by then. Hopefully he would get one. Then maybe he could decide what to do about Lucinda Hathaway.

  With a sigh, he tipped his head against the backrest and closed his eyes.

  He had no legal right to force her to return to her husband.

  But he had no moral right to keep her with him, either, especially feeling about her the way he did.

  Nine

  “You smell good,” Rylander said later that afternoon when he helped her off the train at the Altoona, Pennsylvania, depot. “Like flowers.”

  Unwilling to let on how much his words pleased her, Lucinda busied herself retying the bow securing her horsehair bonnet. The wind had picked up with the approach of dusk and was playing havoc with her ribbons. Once she was satisfied that both the hat and her blush were under control, she scanned the platform one last time, saw no sign of Smythe, and happily put him from her mind. Smiling, she took the arm Tait offered and let him lead her out of the station and into the heart of Altoona.

  It was the ultimate railroad town. Carved out of the wilderness only twenty-one years ago, it existed for a single purpose—to service the Pennsylvania Railroad with its machine shops and foundries and miles of tracks.

  Carefully stepping over one imbedded in the middle of the street, she turned to Rylander and, just to needle him, asked, “Which flowers?”

  “Something sweet and . . . flowery.”

  “Hyacinths, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.”

  His arm felt solid and warm beneath her gloved hand, and she allowed herself to brush against his shoulder ever so slightly. There was a calm steadiness about Tait Rylander that she appreciated—craved, almost. It seemed she had spent all of her life fighting for balance. With him, she had only to lean against his arm to find it.

  She was sorry they had argued earlier. She disliked having to so blatantly dodge his questions. But she had no intention of baring that unspeakable part of her past to anyone’s scrutiny. Especially his.

  So to ease any lingering awkwardness, she badgered him with playful teasing, just to see him smile. “Lilacs?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Lavender? Violets?”

  “Something purple.”

  “Purple?” She glanced up to find him fighting a smile. “Why purple?”

  Looking quite smug, he motioned to his mauve vest and her pale cerise walking dress. “It’s your favorite color.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “A safe presumption.”

  “A presumptuous presumption. And you’re wrong. The color of this dress is more pink than purple, and the scent I’m wearing is Attar of Roses.”

  A labored sigh. “Miss Hathaway, you wear me out. I had no idea offering compliments to a woman could be so exhausting. Can we not simply agree that you smell good and look pretty?”

  “But it’s important to be precise, even when—”

  Deep laughter cut her off. The vibration of it passed all the way down his arm and into her chest.

  “Rather than accept a compliment as your due,” he scolded with a grin, “you would argue with the devil himself, wouldn’t you, my dear?”

  My dear. She liked that. “I’m not sure what the devil—”

  “See? You’re hopeless. If you’ll just say, ‘Thank you, Tait,’ so we can put an end to it, I promise I’ll never compliment you again.”

  “Thank you, Tait. But I never said I didn’t want you to—”

  Another burst of laughter, and she looked over to see his head was thrown back, his fine teeth showing in a wide-open grin. As her gaze drifted up his strong neck to the shadowed underside of his square jaw, she thought she had never seen a more attractive or compelling sight than Tait Rylander in an unguarded moment of delight.

  She liked that he wore a bowler rather than a top hat, which would have made him impossibly tall. She liked that there was enough wave in his dark hair to make it curl over his ears and at the back of his neck. She liked that his smile was slightly one-sided and reached all the way up to his arresting eyes.

  But most of all, she liked the way laugher burst out of him without restraint or artifice, like a bright bubble of unabashed joy.

  “We’ll stop at the telegraph office first,” he said in that dictatorial way of his that she liked somewhat less. “I need to send a wire to Doyle.”

  She stiffened.

  He must have felt it because his head swung sharply toward her. “I’m not telling him I found you, Lucinda,” he said in a reassuring voice. “Only that I tracked you to Philadelphia and I’m continuing on to Pittsburgh.”

  She nodded, still a bit confused by his motives. Granted, southern gallantry ran deep in him, and until her old nemesis was dealt with, he probably wouldn’t want to leave her alone, even if it took him hundreds of miles out of his way. But why would he withhold the truth from Doyle? He had nothing to gain by doing so, and everything to lose.

  He must have sensed those doubts, too. The man was becoming entirely too adept at reading her thoughts. “He expects to hear from me. If he doesn’t, he might become suspicious.”

  “Of what? What have you done wrong?”

  He didn’t answer but scanned the street, his lips pressed in a tight line.

  The wind gusted, and she pulled her new shawl closer around her shoulders, wishing she had worn her traveling cape instead. But if she had, her new gown would have been hidden from view, and she wanted to look her best in case Tait noticed.

  Tait. When had she starting thinking of him as Tait?

  The silence grew. They walked almost two blocks before he spoke again. When he did, it was to say something so shocking and unexpected it changed everything.

  “I wish I had met you first.”

  Seven words. Expressing a sentiment so innocent yet so weighted with meaning it threw her thoughts into disarray.

  I wish I had met you first.

  She didn’t know what that meant—or what she wanted it to mean—or how to respond. So, as was her habit when feeling unsure, she retreated into the safety of humor. “Actually, you did. Although ‘met’ might be too generous a word.”

  He turned his head and looked at her, and what she saw in his eyes made her heart change rhythm and her mind soar to places it had never been. “Mrs. Throckmorton and I were attending a gathering—I don’t remember where—outside, I think.”

  “The Wallingfords’.”
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  She nodded in surprise. “Yes. The annual Wallingford garden party.” Did he remember, too? Facing forward again, she matched her pace to his and allowed herself to lean against his arm. “We were watching the croquet game, as I recall. Mrs. Throckmorton was complaining about the cloudiness, the bugs, the stale sandwiches, and the warm lemonade—although she wouldn’t have missed it for the world—when you swept by with a striking brunette on your arm.”

  “Swept? Hardly sounds manly.”

  She laughed. “I assure you, one had only to look at your companion to put to rest any doubts about your manliness.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. She was beautiful, then?”

  “Very. Tall and regal. Quite the belle of the gathering. I remember thinking she must have been raised in a much colder climate, because despite the cool breeze, it seemed not to bother her in the least—or you, either, judging by the avidity of your stare—that her chest was almost completely exposed.”

  “Avidity? Surely not.”

  “I fear so. In truth, I was quite embarrassed for you.”

  His chuckle was a song in her ear. “I don’t remember her. But I do remember you. You were coming down the steps with Doyle, your blond heads together, laughing over some quip he had made. You were wearing a purple dress that brought out the green in your eyes. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d seen all day.”

  “Only that day? What about the other three hundred and sixty-four.”

  “Just say, ‘Thank you, Tait.’”

  Keeping her head tucked so he wouldn’t see her foolish grin, she murmured, “Thank you, Tait.”

  “You’re welcome, Lucinda.”

  “But just to be clear, it was lilac, not purple.”

  “Can’t help yourself, can you?”

  Laughing, she pointed at a Western Union Telegraph sign in the next block. “It appears it’s still open.”

  “The conductor said they kept a telegrapher on duty at night because of the railroads. We’ll stop there first, then find the restaurant he recommended.”

  As they stepped inside the small telegraph office, the clerk looked up from the chicken leg he was gnawing, then hastily set it aside and wiped the grease from his fingers. “Help you?” he asked, throat bobbing as he swallowed.